


Passing Shadows

by aquileaofthelonelymountain



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, ReShirement, old husbands in love, parentshield, post LOTR, post-botfa everybody lives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-29
Updated: 2018-09-29
Packaged: 2019-07-20 07:28:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16132526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aquileaofthelonelymountain/pseuds/aquileaofthelonelymountain
Summary: The door's green colour was bright, the silver mark was still there, the flowers along the pathway bloomed … nothing had changed, and Frodo felt helplessly lost.He still stood in front of the closed garden door, his arms like dead weights at his side as if even opening it would be too great an effort. Home. He was home again.





	Passing Shadows

The green door still looked the same, not even the silver mark on it had changed. The original one that had been put there more than sixty years ago had been long lost, of course, but when visiting Bilbo’s birthday party, Gandalf had left his rune on exactly the same spot again. Bilbo had pretended to be upset about that, but had actually enjoyed the little reminder of his famous adventure.

The green colour was bright, the silver mark was still there, the flowers along the pathway bloomed … nothing had changed, and Frodo felt helplessly lost.

He still stood in front of the closed garden door, his arms like dead weights at his side as if even opening it would be too great an effort.

Home. He was home again.

There had been a time – a long, cruel time – where he hadn’t been able to remember what home looked like, felt like. It had been erased from his mind, and a tiny part of him had feared that it had been erased from the world as well. To see now that it was still here, unchanged … He needed a moment to really understand that. Would it still look the same if he dared to open the green door, if he entered Bag End? Could it feel the same? Even after everything that had happened? He swallowed nervously, and by now his finger dug into the wooden garden door.

Would he be brave enough to find out?

Frodo would never know the answer to that as the door opened with a slight creak. He watched how it was pushed open, and time seemed to lengthen endlessly until a hobbit left the smial. He took a deep breath and stretched, blind to the younger hobbit standing at the garden door.

He hadn’t changed. Maybe his hair had become a touch lighter and there was more white in it than grey now, but apart from that Bilbo still looked the same.

Bilbo blinked his eyes open, and they widened as he finally noticed the young hobbit at the garden door. Different emotions danced over his face – surprise, relief, something Frodo couldn’t name – before he moved down the steps. The garden door was pushed open, and suddenly Frodo found himself in his uncle’s warm embrace.

“My dear Frodo”, he breathed, and his frame shook. “My dear, dear boy.” He smelt familiar, of tea and pipe-weed and sunlight, and finally Frodo felt how the shadow that had been upon him for so long lifted a bit.

“ _Givashel_?” a deep voice called. “Where have you gone? Are you …” The voice that had so often sung to him stopped, and Frodo looked over Bilbo’s shoulder to see his uncle Thorin standing in the open door. Despite his age, the dwarf still was an impressive figure with broad shoulders and thick silver-white hair. A fond smile spread on his face, and he hurried to them with open arms. Frodo already expected to be drawn into a true bear hug, but instead Thorin enfolded him and Bilbo gently in his arms.

“Welcome home, _ibinê_ ”, Thorin whispered.

Frodo didn’t answer, but stayed in the embrace of his uncles until his tears stopped flowing.

 

***

 

Some things never changed, and Frodo was glad that the way his uncles treated each other was one of those things.

He had arrived shortly before afternoon tea, and Bilbo ushered him into the cosy kitchen at once. “So Strider sits on the throne of Gondor now?” he asked while rummaging through the cupboard on his search for the good china. “That’s very fine, but I don’t think you got proper afternoon tea at his court, am I right? Kings know nothing of such vital things. If I hadn’t civilized your uncle Thorin …”

“I am not the uncivilized one who hides when the relatives stand in front of our door, my dear”, Thorin interrupted.

“You’re right, I’m sorry.” Bilbo tiptoed to graze a kiss on Thorin’s cheek. When the dwarf turned to get a plate with freshly baked scones from the sideboard, he bent to Frodo and whispered: “He’s just pretending not to hear them almost knocking holes into the door. He claims to get a little hard at hearing, but the truth is that he only hears what he wants to hear.”

“Life is easier that way”, Thorin commented idly and put the scones down in front of Frodo with a wink.

“Just for him”, Bilbo muttered beneath his breath as he carried the kettle to the table. “Have you already sneaked some of the scones, my heart?”, he asked innocently as he eyed the plate.

“M-hm. You said you made them for me.”

“For _us_.” Bilbo nudged the plate towards Frodo as he sat down opposite of him. “Eat some before your uncle Thorin gets all of them. He loves my cooking, you know.”

The dwarf stepped behind Bilbo and pressed a kiss on his ear, causing him to giggle. “I love _you_ ”, he mumbled, the words half spoken into Bilbo’s curls.

“Thorin!” he protested half-heartedly. “Stop it, the tea will get cold!”

The dwarf drew back – only after having pressed another smacking kiss on his husband’s cheek –, and Bilbo finally got to pour them some tea.

Frodo watched how the beverage trickled into the cups. “You two haven’t changed at all.”

His voice was calm and didn’t tremble, but something about the way he spoke made Bilbo put the kettle aside. He stretched across the table to place a hand on his nephew’s cheek. It was warm and soft, familiar, and Frodo found himself leaning into the touch.

“Adventures have a way of changing who we are, haven’t they?” Bilbo asked quietly.

A lump built in Frodo’s throat, and for long moments he couldn’t answer. When he finally did, it was a mere whisper: “They do.”

A broad hand was placed on his back, and Thorin sat down on the chair next to him. His uncles didn’t urge him to speak, but stayed with him, comforting him with their presence.

The tea had already grown cold, and Bilbo had settled down on a chair on his other side when he found the strength to speak of his journey. It wasn’t much, and many things he told them were incoherent and had to sound like riddles to them. But he always felt the comforting touch of a hobbit’s and a dwarf’s hand on his skin.

 

***

 

The world outside had grown dark, and Frodo was lying in his own bed, staring up at the ceiling. His room looked exactly like on the day he had left – his bed with the colourful pillows and blankets, his shelves, filled with books he had snatched from uncle Bilbo’s library to read them in the light of the candles, his children’s toys, gifted to him by the dwarves of Erebor or crafted by uncle Thorin himself.

“We’ve kept everything clean for the day of your return”, Bilbo had explained when he had led Frodo into the room. He hadn’t said aloud that he was glad for his return, but all the little gestures had said it – his hand on Frodo’s shoulder, the slight tremor in his voice, the way he had looked back at him before leaving the room. He saw his uncle’s grateful smile clearly in the darkness, and his stomach twisted with guilt.

He had failed. He had been weak. He had almost condemned them to slavery, torture, death. Almost … What did that little word matter? Nothing. It hadn’t been him who had prevented all that from happening. He hadn’t been brave, but weak, so weak.

A fiery eye suddenly stared at him from out of the darkness. Frodo sat up in bed with a jerk and violently rubbed his knuckles over his closed eyes, trying to chase the cruel gaze away. But it was still there, red as fire. He felt cold as if he had been pushed into the icy world of the wraiths again, and a searing pain shot through his shoulder. He heard them scream as they reached for him –

“Frodo?”

This voice was gentle and warm, a spark of comfort in the night. It called him back into his bedroom, into safety.

“Uncle Thorin?” he asked, out of breath as if he had been running through the whole Shire.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“I wasn’t asleep yet.” He felt Thorin’s eyes on him, concerned and compassionate in the warm light of a single candle, the exact opposite of the fiery eye. “What about you?” Frodo added as the silence between them lengthened. “Why are you awake?”

“An old man’s strange habits”, the dwarf replied. “I got up to drink some water, but when I was on the way back into our bedroom, I couldn’t resist having a look at you.” The candle light flickered as Thorin came a step closer. “We missed you”, he said, and the honesty in his voice made Frodo’s heart ache. “Do you mind if I sit with you for a little while?”

“I’d like that.” Frodo shuffled to one side, causing Thorin to chuckle.

“Just like back then when you were still a pebble …” He sat down on the edge of the bed with a sigh. “But when you came into your tweens, you didn’t want me to sit at your side and sing for you anymore … I must admit that I was a little heart-broken about that – well, more than just a little if you ask your uncle Bilbo.”

Frodo stared at a crease in the duvet. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Thorin asked kindly. “For having grown up? I’ve witnessed worse – can you imagine Fíli and Kíli in their rebellious phase?” He shook his head. “There’s nothing you have to apologize for, my dear.”

Frodo kept staring at the duvet. “You’re wrong.” After a short pause, he added: “There are countless things I have to apologize for. I will never be able to make up for what I did.”

Thorin wrapped an arm, strong despite its age and endlessly gentle, around his shoulder and drew him close. Frodo leaned his head against his uncle’s chest and took a shuddering breath.

“The shadow will pass”, Thorin promised him. “Right now you might think that the nightmares won’t stop, and that you will never be able to apologize. But the shadow _will_ pass, trust me.”

Frodo tensed. “It’s not what I deserve. I –”

“Hush, _ibinê_ ”, Thorin interrupted him gently. “I know it’s difficult to imagine for you now, but you will find peace. I know that.”

“The Battle of the Five Armies?” Frodo asked quietly.

For some moments Thorin didn’t answer, but then he nodded. “If I … if I had been stronger, if I had been able to resist the dragon-sickness, it could have been avoided. Who can guess how many dwarves and elves and men would have been able to return to their families? Instead their blood was spilled on that day, the lives of my own kin were almost taken, and I … I threatened your uncle Bilbo’s life. And I, being responsible for all of this, I survived.” The dwarf’s whole body tensed, and it took a while before he spoke again. “When I woke up in the halls of healing, I didn’t think that I deserved it. And when I saw Bilbo at my side, I could only think of how much he had suffered because of me. I didn’t have the will to fight for my own life, and I almost lost myself to the shadow back then.”

“But what about Ravenhill?” Frodo dared to ask. “I know the story, uncle Bilbo has forgiven you on Ravenhill.”

A very tiny sad smile appeared on Thorin’s face, one that left his eyes clouded. “We both thought that I would die on Ravenhill. I believed that Bilbo’s words were only meant to comfort me …” His deep voice grew strangely thin, almost inaudible. “The last comfort for a dying man.”

Frodo closed his eyes, lost himself to the memory of smoke and fire in the air, the end of all things. He understood very well what his uncle was talking about.

“But I was wrong.”

The hobbit’s eyes snapped open as Thorin spoke, his voice now firm again, strong with certainty.

“It took me long, but finally I understood: When we believe that our time is running out, that this is our last chance to say something … There is no place for lies in such a situation, not even for comforting ones. Every word up on Ravenhill came from the depths of our hearts.”

 “How did you know?” Frodo asked.

“As I said, it took me a long while. Bilbo … He sat at my side all the time. Even when I was unconscious, he didn’t leave me. When he saw that I had finally opened my eyes he whispered my name and got up, got closer to look at me … I should have known his feelings as soon as I saw the relief on his tear-streaked tired face. He had reached out, but didn’t dare to touch me because he was afraid of hurting me. But all I saw was that he didn’t close the distance between us …”

“Your uncle Thorin”, a soft voice came from the door, “had come to the conclusion that I was afraid of him, and you know how stubborn dwarves can be once their mind is set on something.” Bilbo stepped into the room, and it brightened up as he placed another candle on the bedside table. He reached out to brush his fingers over Thorin’s cheek, and the dwarf leaned into the caress with a fond smile. “I’ve never been afraid of you”, Bilbo said quietly and bent down to whisper something into Thorin’s ear. Frodo couldn’t understand the words, but the dwarf’s smile deepened.

Then Bilbo walked around the bed to sit down on his nephew’s side. “Despite having finally woken up, Thorin was a mere shadow of himself”, he explained, “and I was so afraid that I could still lose him … I tried to convince him that I understood, that I didn’t blame him for his sickness. That I knew that poisonous yet irresistible call because of that horrible thing in my pocket.”

Under different circumstances this little hint would have been enough for Frodo to feel the weight around his neck again, pulling him down. But not this time. Now he was enthralled by the solemn voice of his uncle Bilbo.

“He wouldn’t to listen to any of my assertions that I had forgiven him, but apologized again and again … I could see him fading. I was so afraid.”

Frodo watched the faces of his uncles. He had never heard that part of their story, and the sadness he saw in their eyes as they remembered the darkest time of their life made his own eyes prickle with tears. They were always so happy around each other – had always been as far as Frodo could think back –, and it deemed him impossible that there had been a time where they hadn’t found comfort and joy in each other’s arms.

“One night”, Thorin continued, his voice barely more than a whisper, “I woke up to the sound of your sobs. You were sitting at my bed, your face hidden in your palms, trembling. And I asked: ‘Why are you crying?’”

“I don’t want to lose you”, Bilbo answered in the same hushed voice, causing Frodo to hold his breath. “I don’t want to be without you.”

“In that moment, I began to understand”, Thorin said. “I reached for your hand, and you didn’t withdraw it, but grasped mine and held on to it …”

Lost in their memories, they had reached for the other’s hand now, and their fingers intertwined just above Frodo’s heart.

“Don’t cry, _givashel_ ”, Thorin whispered although his own eyes looked glassy as well.

Bilbo sniffed, but carried a tender smile on his face. “It wasn’t always easy, was it?”

“No, but it was worth it.” Thorin’s eyes lingered on his husband. “I’m so happy to have shared the last sixty years with you, and I will gladly spend another sixty years with you.” He brought Bilbo’s hand to his lips and breathed a kiss on his knuckles. “I love you.”

“And I love you, Thorin.”

They looked at each other fondly for some moments before Thorin turned to Frodo.

“Do you see what I mean, _ibinê_? Sometimes the shadow returns, but it has lost its power. Love has a way of shining far brighter.”

“We love you, Frodo”, Bilbo said and huddled a little closer to him, “and we will always be here to comfort you should the shadow get too strong.”

“Always”, Thorin promised.

The two candles on the nightstand shone brightly, but Frodo didn’t feel the urge to watch the shadows, dreading that a fiery eye or nightmares in dark robes could appear. Both his uncles had an arm around his shoulders, and he felt warm and safe in their embrace. His eyelids grew heavy as the events of the day finally caught up with him.

“Can you stay with me?” he asked tiredly.

Two soft murmured “of course” answered him, and he eventually shut his eyes.

“And can you sing for me?” he mumbled.

Two voices, one deep and low, one bright and clear, started to hum softly at the same time. It was a quiet tune, and only gradually there were words added to it, some spoken in a language Frodo was familiar with, some in tongues he knew only little about.

But all of them spoke of home and warmth, just like the arms that were wrapped around him, and for the first time in a long, long while Frodo’s sleep was deep and peaceful.

**Author's Note:**

> I've wanted to write a fic where Frodo returns home to his uncles after the War of the Ring for a long time, and to explore his relationship with Thorin (because of parallels between the Ring and the Arkenstone, but also for fluffy parentshield reasons).
> 
> I hope you enjoyed it despite its bitter-sweet touch, and thank you so much for reading :D


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